


Pace the Earth

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Affection, Endeavour Morse Needs a Hug, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Max DeBryn is Unapologetically Lovely, Post-Season/Series 07, Protectiveness, Trauma, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27898216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: It’s obvious – the fireworks of Venice, the opera-house, gleams behind Morse’s eyes, a year-old memory. He’s never said anything, at least not until now – but his faraway gaze, even over a body; his opera-records, packed away for a while afterwards; his lack of cheek or anything beyond the necessities; his hovering in the mortuary like an absent-minded ghost rather than with his usual, characteristic reluctance, have all told their own story.And now, it’s December again.
Relationships: Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Pace the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are, yet another Morse&Max fic. I really appreciate the kind words on the last fic; thankyou for the support. I think trying to write something daily might be a bit of a tall order as work has restarted; it's nice to have a project to work upon, though. I find I have some bittersweet feelings re. Christmas time so these particular fics are something of a perfect outlet. As per, Endeavour is not mine.

* * *

‘For heavens’ sake, Morse,’ Max admonishes, ‘what on earth are you doing? You’ll catch your death.’

The scolding is accompanied by a warm coat, one pulled from his cupboard with some considerable haste after spying Morse outside his lounge door on his patio, with nothing more than his suit jacket slung over his undershirt and a pair of borrowed pyjama-bottoms to keep him warm, arms folded tightly about himself. He looks touchingly young as Max draws level with him, all fragile fog of breath and pale skin on a cold snap of a morning.

He visibly starts as Max puts the coat around his shoulders; it’s one of his best, brought during a particularly rainy season on the River Tay, woollen and blue and soft; not quite long enough, given their differences in height but the poor fellow swims in it all the same. Morse inspects it with the same detached gravitas he might give a crime-scene; observing, holding himself back, as though unable to believe that someone might gift him with such a coat, however temporarily and Max considers his thin beige one, worn in all winds and weathers, currently hung up on a hook in his entrance-hall – another sure sign the man hasn’t been taking care of himself, failed to sleep through the night, at least sleep soundly.

‘Thanks,’ he murmurs, huddling in Max’s coat, shuddering a bit; there are dark circles beneath his eyes and he looks anything but rested; he’s pale in the chill of the morning and Max is inclined to wonder if the guest-room is in fact all that comfortable.

‘What is it, old fellow?’ he asks gently; hovering close with his coffee; knows he should offer something more pragmatic like tea or porridge, something into Morse’s belly to cheer him, but the sergeant is even less likely to comply when he’s got something on his mind. Max has worked with this infuriating fellow for close to a decade now; he’s starting to think he might have picked up on some of his mannerisms.

Morse says nothing, but his face says everything; a shift, of annoyance, or conflict maybe, or just stunned stupid by the direct question. Or maybe, just too tired to say anything at all. Too tired for weeks now.

It’s a year since Venice, after all and Max lets him parse the question, follows his lead by simply looking out to the garden, drinking his coffee. This is quite habitual for him of a morning, standing in the garden, wrapped up with a mug of something warm and he hums at the welcome heat of steam and ground beans, staring out at the dewy world of his favourite spot. The summer days they shared here once upon a time have long gone; now, the ground is damp with frost, only just starting to melt in a soft glint beneath a weak winter’s sun; the remaining flowers, lending colour to the scene, have lost their bright hue. The sun casts a hopeful light over the scene, watched over by Max’s statue, but it’s still nipping at the skin, at their bones.

Morse breathes out, shaken, another breath of fog, yet somehow sounding breathless and if possible, he huddles even further into Max’s coat.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he says, suddenly and Max looks up at him in surprise, more at such a random proclamation than anything else. ‘It’s – it’s peaceful here, Max.’ He clutches the coat around himself, as though belatedly recognising the need to stay warm, his skin pale against the striking dark of the wool. ‘I think I might stay in Oxford, this year.’

He meets Max’s eyes, his own so deeply, deeply tired; the arms the sergeant bears are brittle, and still he proclaims his intent to remain; to not go fleeing abroad once more to chase criminals and bring them home. Once was quite enough, Max thinks and he steps a little closer, shares his silence with him, and also his coffee.

‘You could stay here, you know,’ he offers finally, watching Morse take a sip of his drink – more than lukewarm now and perhaps sweeter than Morse himself would like; the sergeant just manages to conceal a visible grimace, but takes another gulp anyway and there’s something oddly intimate about that, Max considers, the trust of a few years taking root and growing and blossoming and leading to this, standing in his garden on a chilly morning, letting himself be woken up. ‘Give yourself a bit of room. My door is always open.’

Morse chuffs and despite his exhaustion, his smile is embarrassed, moved and very real. ‘Oh no, I’ve – you’ve already…’ He breaks himself off, trying to get his words in order; Max says nothing, just straightens his own coat.

‘How about just a little longer?’ he asks instead. ‘I don’t mean to overstep, old fellow, but I really don’t think you should be alone right now.’ It’s obvious – the fireworks of Venice, the opera-house, gleams behind Morse’s eyes, a year-old memory. He’s never said anything, at least not until now – but his faraway gaze, even over a body; his opera-records, packed away for a while afterwards; his lack of cheek or anything beyond the necessities; his hovering in the mortuary like an absent-minded ghost rather than with his usual, characteristic reluctance, have all told their own story.

And now, it’s December again.

He watches Morse watching him before swapping his gaze to the garden, to the cottage – then back to him, something in his face unreadable.

‘…Could I?’ the words fall off his tongue, shyly; disbelieving that Max would actually want him to stay. ‘Just for a bit?’

_‘Let us endure an hour and see injustice done,’_ Max rejoins dryly; watches Morse’s wrinkles fall into the parody of a smile.

‘That’s a _yes,_ is it?’

‘Most certainly,’ Max matches him in tone, taking it as a victory as Morse’s mouth slips into something more genuine and he glances back up at the house, clear thought in his expression before he silently seems to reach a decision; gives a single nod.

‘Alright. Thanks, Max.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Max puts a hand on his back. ‘Now, inside, please.’ He steers the sergeant into the house, shuts the lounge door behind him to keep in the heat, turns to see Morse still clinging onto his coat, as though it’s the first true warmth he’s known in a while. ‘You alright?’

‘I’ve been thinking about her,’ Morse blurts out, as if he needed to be within the safety of Max’s cottage to say it, rather than outside where the world and its stripped skeleton trees, leaving them open and exposed to the eyes and ears of neighbours, could hear him. ‘About – the things she did. What she said. She said she did – terrible things.’ He’s saying every word apologetically, as though unsure if Max wants to hear it and so is deciding to push through as quickly as possible. For Max’s part, he’s quietly surprised, almost intrigued: he’s heard rumours, heard what that woman’s husband did to Mrs Bright, to others, heard from his colleagues at the station how withdrawn Morse became in the aftermath; has been again, as of late. But never a word from Morse’s own mouth.

‘It’s – probably better. This way,’ Morse murmurs, clutching the coffee mug and staring down at Max’s carpet; Max diplomatically takes the cup away in case he drops it. Normally he wouldn’t mind; he’s used to fluids and stains. But at work, not at home. He replaces the mug with his hand, laying his fingers on Morse’s wrist, more to get his attention than anything else and then moving his palm to his elbow, keeping him, he hopes, centred enough.

_‘All thoughts to rive the heart are here and all in vain,’_ he offers in an attempt at comfort. ‘I’m sorry, Morse.’

The sergeant swallows, audible. ‘I know. I’m sorry, too. Max,’ he holds his gaze, his exhausted eyes a long way from the blazing hard ones that matched Inspector Thursday’s last year, word for angry word, jibe for fuming jibe. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

Shaking his head, the pathologist reaches up, puts his hands on his shoulders, cups the side of one of those pale, freckled cheeks briefly, in some vain attempt at soothing or shielding. ‘No, no. Don’t think like that, dear chap, it’s all long past. None of those things matter, now.’

He surreptitiously wipes at a corner of Morse’s suddenly-glinting left eye as they gaze down at him, altogether rather helpless; a forlorn figure brought in from the cold, a lost winter sprite, observing the landscape and wondering where all the world had gone.

‘Max,’ Morse says his name in a croak, in a sound like something tentative, the prelude to something he can’t finish and really, there’s only one thing left to do.

‘Oh, come here,’ Max reaches for him and is gratified – and relieved – when Morse leans into him at once, wraps his arms around his shoulders as though seeking an anchor, buying his face in his shoulder and clinging on, unashamedly vulnerable. Max huffs, propping his chin on his shoulder, cradling the back of his head, laying a soothing palm on messy auburn curls, murmuring whatever comfort he can – even as the coat, after all unattached to any actual arms, slips off Morse’s shoulders and lands in an ungraceful pile beside his feet.

‘Oh,’ Morse pulls back, startled at the soft drop, wiping his nose with his hand, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t –’

‘It’s all fine, it’s not your fault.’ Max bends down to pluck it up but Morse is faster, whizzing down to retrieve the coat with a speed his former mood would have belied, folding it over one arm with a particular kind of care.

‘Where would you like me to put it?’ he asks, politely, switching into what could only be his best attempt at being a tolerable guest, and Max smiles, moves to take it from him with a comforting hand to his shoulder.

‘Well, I would like you to put _yourself_ into a long, hot shower,’ he rejoins; Morse chuckles feebly at that, embarrassed, clearly, wiping his eye with the heel of one hand, ‘and then I would like you to eat something, please. Preferably more than _one_ thing, if you don’t mind.’

Morse nods, red-eyed and pale-faced at the sudden sternness of Max's tone, looking as though he understands that this is the price to pay for opening up to a friend who happens to be a doctor who in turn happens to be concerned for his welfare. ‘Fair enough. I’ll try,’ he promises and Max nods; it’s not ideal, but it’s enough for the moment. Everything else will just have to pan out as follows and he waves towards the stairs.

‘Off you go then, get yourself sorted. I’ll put the kettle on. Tea?’

Morse nods again, pushing some of his hair back as though belatedly aware of his current state; a big inhale, and exhale. ‘Yes, please. I can make it, though –’

‘No,’ Max cuts him off, points him towards the stairs; with a bashful look, Morse lets his hands drop – instead of moving, however, he regards Max with a look, and then steps forward, taking Max entirely by surprise with another hug, fastening his arms around his shoulders, for once being still – being stayed.

‘Thanks, Max,’ he murmurs into his jumper, letting go again almost as quickly and Max has just enough time to lay a comforting hand to the back of his head before Morse lets him go and with the first proper smile that Max has seen in weeks, turns and slowly trudges upstairs.

_‘It is but for a season,’_ Max murmurs to himself, knowing – as sure as he knows his favourite recipes forward and backwards; knows every fishing rod and tie; knows the Hippocratic Oath word for word; knows his niece’s love for the lightest shades of flowers that put her in mind of springtime that now whilst there is hope, now that Morse is taking the first step back to himself – all it will take now is one clue, one idea, let alone one body; one reason or phone-call for Morse to abandon this programme of enforced self-care and dash down to the station at the first sign of a summons.

Max chuffs in resignation, even as he hears the reassuring rush of footsteps in the bathroom above; the rushing gush of the pipes as warm water makes their way through to warm up the man currently under his roof and goes to put the coat away before getting the bread out; makes a mental note to leave the cross-word beside Morse’s plate.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Max quotes Housman XLVIII 'Be still, my soul, be still' which also inspired the title.


End file.
